The envoys of King's Landing, carrying the King's will and scorching fury, finally set foot on the rough and rebellious soil of the Iron Islands.
Their arrival was like an ominous shadow wrapped in a thunderstorm, suddenly shrouding the jagged towers and gloomy coastline of Pyke.
Leading the delegation was the new Hand of the King, Lord Owen Merryweather.
Just after taking over the still-hot seat left by Tywin Lannister, before he could gain a firm foothold in the mire of Red Keep politics, he was dispatched by the Mad King's order to this distant, salty, hostile, and bitter-cold land.
At this moment, Lord Owen Merryweather was in a terrible mood. The habitual fawning smile on his face had long been blown away by the sea wind, leaving only condescending annoyance and undisguised disgust—disgust for the humid air, the coarse food, and these Ironborn before him who seemed never tamed by civilization.
Accompanying him were two Kingsguard knights, forming a stark contrast.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning," was like a moving snow-capped mountain. His handsome face was calm as water, containing unfathomable martial skill and unspoken majesty. Lewyn Martell from Dorne carried a temperament mixing his homeland's laziness and danger; his sharp eyes seemed always able to perceive the slightest fluctuation.
These three envoys of disparate identities collectively formed the tangible embodiment of the Iron Throne's cold will. Every step they took tread on the Iron Islands' taut nerves.
When the King's Landing delegation, guided by guards, stepped into the sea-wind-eroded, strict-atmosphered main keep of Pyke, the expected figures of King Quellon Greyjoy or at least his heir Balon did not appear. Instead, there was an unusually young boy possessing a calm demeanor inconsistent with his age.
Euron stood in the center of the hall, posture upright. Though only ten, his height approached that of many adult men. His muscle lines were smooth and contained explosive power, like a young cheetah. His eyes held no childish timidity or curiosity, only a deep tranquility, with a faint smile on his face.
Lord Owen Merryweather's brow immediately furrowed tight. His patience, already worn thin by sea wind and bad mood, ran out instantly.
He flicked his silk sleeves, once scented with King's Landing perfume but now stained with the Iron Islands' salty air. His tone of arrogance and dissatisfaction was undisguised: "What is the meaning of this?" he shrilled, gaze sweeping over the empty main seat, finally landing back on Euron. "Is House Greyjoy devoid of men? To send a wet-behind-the-ears brat to welcome the King's Hand and the Kingsguard? Where is Quellon? Where is Balon? Is this the Iron Islands' idea of hospitality?"
Facing this near-humiliating interrogation, Euron Greyjoy did not get angry. He took a step forward, the silver platter in his hand steady. The bread and salt upon it were a silent declaration.
"Lord Merryweather," his voice was clear, possessing a strange penetrating quality that echoed in the stone hall, causing Ser Arthur Dayne to look sideways slightly. "Upon receiving news of your impending visit, my father King Quellon and brother Balon indeed had urgent matters and left Pyke long ago. In the interim, all affairs of the Iron Islands are temporarily managed by me, Euron Greyjoy."
He raised the silver platter slightly, movements standard as if walking out of an ancient book. "Guest Right is sacred and inviolable, regardless of the age of the one presiding over the ceremony. Please partake of salt and bread. My lords have journeyed far; Pyke has prepared quarters for rest."
His response was fluent and confident, lacking the immaturity and panic a ten-year-old should have, resembling instead a seasoned host.
This speech and conduct made Merryweather's anger feel like hitting tough leather, finding no purchase. The two Kingsguard knights, especially Arthur Dayne, had a trace less habitual indifference in their gazes, replaced by imperceptible scrutiny and inquiry.
This second son of the Iron Islands seemed distinctly different from the noble scions he had heard of.
Euron's gaze lingered briefly when meeting Ser Arthur Dayne's eyes. Besides due respect, there was a trace of imperceptible, pure curiosity and scrutiny for the legend himself. In this moment, etiquette became the best armor, cleverly hiding the Iron Islands' true edge under rules.
Guest Right: Bread represents survival assurance, symbolizing the host's protection of the guest's life; salt symbolizes purification and eternity, implying the contract is incorruptible. Once a guest enters the host's roof and accepts the bread and salt provided, Guest Right takes effect immediately. Until the guest leaves, neither party may harm the other. This right covers all classes, from commoners to nobles.
Violators of Guest Right are deemed "abhorred by gods and men," like the legendary "Rat Cook" who killed a prince guest and was turned into a white rat by the gods, eternally eating his own offspring.
Though full of displeasure, Lord Owen Merryweather knew the ancient tradition of Guest Right could not be profaned. He reached out somewhat impatiently, took a piece of coarse wheat bread from the silver platter, deliberately dipped it in the dish of white, fine salt, and put it in his mouth, completing this ritual symbolizing safety and contract. Once the salt entered his mouth, his disdainful expression paused slightly—it wasn't the coarse, bitter salty taste of sea salt he expected, but an unusually pure, delicate saltiness. He instantly knew this was no ordinary item.
"This is... 'White Gold Sand'?" Owen Merryweather raised an eyebrow, tone deliberately feigning exaggerated wonder, as if he had just tasted a rare delicacy. "Indeed good stuff, extraordinary taste. Pity that in King's Landing, this stuff is worth its weight in gold. We who serve the King can't afford to enjoy even a bit of it." He changed the subject, looking sharply at Euron, greed almost undisguised: "The Iron Islands produce this 'White Gold Sand,' surely... the price would be much friendlier?"
The two Kingsguard knights—Arthur Dayne and Lewyn Martell—also silently performed the ritual.
Ser Arthur's movements were concise and solemn. He seemed unsurprised by the salt's quality; his deep gaze lingered more on Euron, who was handling the situation.
Whether coarse salt or "White Gold Sand," essentially it was just salty taste. Owen Merryweather's expression combined with his words and tone amounted to near-naked solicitation of bribes. Euron maintained that unfathomable faint smile, tone peaceful as if stating a very ordinary business matter: "My Lord speaks truly. At the source, saving layers of merchant exploitation, it is naturally much cheaper. If we deduct the costs of long-distance transport, storage, and exquisite packaging, what remains is merely solid value."
Euron leaned forward slightly, slowing his voice like sharing a kind suggestion: "The Hand of the King toils for state affairs; coming from afar is very hard. When you leave, why not take some Iron Islands specialties? Consider it a token of our Iron Islands' regard." This speech saved the other's face, seemingly agreeing to the request, yet cleverly limited it with the vague quantifier "some" and defined it as "regard" rather than "tribute," lightly diffusing potential extortion into a decent gift.
Owen Merryweather's expression improved slightly as he took his seat, accompanied by Euron.